


The Last Silhouette

by Aylwyyn228



Series: There was something taking care of me and you [7]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Hosea is team dad, M/M, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Protective Hosea Matthews, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228
Summary: He didn’t know when he first realised that Dutch could get… caught up in things.He’d recognised the melancholy, of course. He was prone to those kinds of moods himself,  though never as deep as Dutch seemed to fall into them.The last year was, of course, an exception he wished he could have avoided.But those were only so apparent because Dutch usually shined so, so brightly. So brightly, that sometimes Hosea worried he was going to burn himself right up.Because if Hosea wasn’t careful, one of these days Dutch was going to drive them all over the cliffedge with one of his plans.
Relationships: Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde (implied)
Series: There was something taking care of me and you [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090346
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	The Last Silhouette

Hosea had let things slide. 

It was his fault, as much as anyone’s. As much as Dutch’s. 

Dutch had been… concerning for weeks. Susan had tried to talk to him about it. Arthur too. But Hosea’d been too caught up in himself. 

Bessie’s loss still felt raw. An aching, gaping  _ thing _ in his chest. 

And it had been all too tempting to let all of that fade away at the bottom of a bottle. 

It was still tempting, if he was honest. He took a perverse pleasure in watching himself fall apart. There was a freedom that came with it. If he was gonna drink himself into the ground, then it was  _ his _ choice to do it, and not even God himself could stop him. 

The grave he was digging for himself was his, and his alone. 

But it couldn’t go on, not anymore. 

There were people counting on him. 

Seeing Dutch and Arthur come back bloody had been… too much. 

For a moment, he’d thought Dutch was dying. The sleeve of his once white shirt had been slick to his skin with blood. But luckily the shot had lodged in the meat of his shoulder and not his lung. He’d been bleeding like a slaughtered pig, but he hadn’t been dying like one. 

But still it’d lodged dread deep in Hosea’s gut, because that could’ve been it. Any day could be it, and at least he’d been clear headed to watch Bessie go. The thought that his boys could go on ahead of him too, that Dutch could, and that their only memory of him would be this drunk fool.

_ His _ only memory of them would be patchy flashes of the people he loved trying to talk some sense into him, having to pick him up off the ground where he’d fallen… 

That was worse than the thought of having nothing to blur the edges of his grief. 

It was coming up on the second spring now, since… and it was time for him to claw his way out of the pit he’d built for himself. 

Time, also, hopefully, to drag Dutch back from whatever brink he’d driven himself to. 

Dutch had always had these moods. These fits. Flights of fancy, Hosea had called them, once. Back when they were young and had nothing much to lose but each other. 

Hosea had got used to recognising the signs. He was good at finding tells in people, and it had been a lucrative skill for most of his life. So after the first couple of times, he hadn’t had any problem sensing when Dutch’s… enthusiasm was about to tip over into something else. 

Into something reckless and ill-thought-through and… 

Really, the signs had been there this time too. 

Waking up in the night, to piss out the whiskey in his gut, and realising that Dutch’s light was still glowing behind his tent walls. That it would likely stay on until dawn. 

The way Dutch was talkin’... 

Christ, he wanted a drink.

But down that road madness lay, and for all that in the last fifteen years Dutch had… worried him sometimes. He’d wager that he’d been the cause of his own share of concern this last year. 

He’d left too much on Dutch’s shoulders and set off this… this fit. 

So now it was time for him to fix it. Before his family shed anymore blood over it.

***

The plan was to get everyone out of camp for the night. It wasn’t… Dutch didn’t take criticism well when he was like this, and this didn’t need to turn into a row. 

God knew, those Callander boys had a mouth on them. Susan too. Throw in Arthur and his, sometimes too impulsive, loyalty. The way he’d defend Dutch to the gates of hell itself, well… This thing could get out of hand… 

Hosea didn’t need anyone getting Dutch’s back up now, not when it was going to take everything to bring him back down again. 

He’d chosen that night. 

He hadn’t had a drink all day. Not for the last few in fact. He felt clear, for the first time in a long time, and that meant that it was time for him to lift some of the weight off Dutch. 

The Callander boys were sat, talking quietly, on a blanket over by the small fire they usually built for themselves. Mac was smoking, and they were passing a bottle of something between them, but it was too early for either of them to have drunk too much. 

Good. 

They looked up as Hosea reached them. 

“Got word of a stagecoach, on the road out by Fayette tomorrow morning. It’ll be guarded, but there should be good money in it. I want you to head out and camp by the riverbend. It’ll put you in a good position to get the lay of the land.” 

“Tomorrow mornin’?” Mac shrugged, took a drink of what Hosea could now see was rum. “Head up there at first light.” 

Hosea snatched the bottle off him and, ignoring Mac’s shout of protest, as well as the insidious voice inside his own head, tossed it into the trees. “You’ll go now and do as you’re goddamn told!” 

“Jesus, what’s your problem?” 

Hosea grabbed Davey by the arm and hauled him up. He gave him a shove over towards the horses. “My problem is lazy sons of bitches, sitting around drinkin’, while there’s work to be done.”

“ _ You _ can talk,” Davey said, darkly.

And… Hosea didn’t really have an answer to that. 

“Fuck, fine.” Mac tossed the stub end of his cigarette into the fire, and got to his feet. “We’re goin’.” 

Always the mediator, Mac slapped his brother on the back as he went to tack up their horses. Hosea was grateful to him for it. 

He went to pat at the stallion’s neck, while Mac hauled the saddle onto its back. “Don’t you take a bottle up there neither. Need you sharp. We’re tryin’ not to make a lot of noise up here.” 

Davey just waved a hand, dismissively. Hosea would be very surprised if one of them didn’t have a bottle of bourbon in their coat. 

But they were sure enough hands for the job.

He gave the horse one last pat. “Come back safe, fellas.” 

Mac already had another cigarette in his mouth, as he grinned back from over his saddle. “Quit your bellyaching, old man. They won’t even see us comin’.” 

Hosea nodded. “I don’t care if they see you, long as they don’t make it far enough to tell anyone about it.” 

Davey snorted. “You’re a ruthless son of a bitch, Matthews.” 

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Hosea said under his breath, as he turned away from them. 

They were good boys, for all he’d only known them nine months or so. They’d get the job done. 

He was maybe a little hard on them, but he didn’t have a better reason to get them out of camp for the night. 

And he needed them out.

He scanned over the sparse campsite and found Susan over by the cliffedge. She was a familiar figure, smoking, with her shawl clasped tightly around her. She always smoked more when she was worried, smoked like a goddamn chimney in fact, until every scrap of fabric in camp had the smell of her Caporals clinging to it. 

Right now, their campsite was beginning to gather a distinct mist around it. 

“Miss Grimshaw,” he said, as he reached her. 

“Mr Matthews,” she agreed, without looking around. “You put those fellas to work?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Good, we’re running low. Lost damn near everything at Wolf Crossing.” 

“Where’s Pearson?” 

Susan tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, and tugged the shawl tighter around her. She wasn’t really dressed for the weather. Hosea wondered if she’d lost her coat back at Wolf Crossing too. 

“Not back yet. Wouldn’t expect him til tomorrow evenin’ at the earliest.” 

Hosea nodded. 

She finished her Caporal and instantly had the packet in her hand again. 

He waited until she’d lit another and then nudged her shoulder. “How you doin’, old girl?” 

She shot him a look, lip curling a little into what might’ve been a smile on a better day. “Enough of that. I mightn’t be twenty-five no more, but you still got a good ten years on me.” 

“Five, maybe.” 

She slapped his arm.

He shook his head when she offered him a smoke. “You got anythin’ cookin’ in town?” 

“Few things. One that might be… lucrative, shall we say.” 

“Good.” The silence between them was heavy. Hosea fished a handful of coins out of his pocket, and pressed them into her hand before she could say anything. “Listen, I need you to take a room in town tonight.” 

Susan scanned over his face for just a heartbeat, before she accepted the money. She turned back to the cliff. “You’re goin’ to talk to him then.” 

“It’s time.”

Susan laughed, harshly. “Well, I don’t envy you that.”

Hosea hummed in agreement.

“Don’t miss it either,” Susan carried on. “He used to keep me up all night.” 

“I’m not sure I want to hear this.” 

She slapped him again, but she was smirking. “If it’d been  _ that _ I might not’ve minded so much.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “He’d be up all night talkin’, round and round, and I’d be damned if I could make head or tail of it.” 

“He gets like that sometimes.” 

She nodded. “Are you gettin’ rid of the boys as well?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, don’t you send them after me. If I’ve got a night in a hotel for my trouble, then I will  _ not _ be opening my door to little Johnny Marston if he gets himself in a fix.” 

Hosea laughed. “I’ll make sure not. I’ll get Arthur to take him out somewhere.” 

“Anywhere, as long as it’s out of my hair.” 

Hosea squeezed her shoulder, in thanks, as he turned to leave. He’d known she would understand. 

“Mr Matthews?” She called, to his retreating back. When he turned back around she was glancing back over her shoulder, not really meeting his eyes. “It’s good to see you looking so well.” 

Not lookin’ a drunk mess was what she meant. Not passed out in a heap in front of the fire. Not havin’ to let Arthur carry him to bed because he could barely stand, let alone walk. 

Oh, but he’d made a godawful mess of all of this. 

But still, Hosea smiled back, though it felt like it was going to crack his jaw.

His hands felt shaky, when he turned back around. 

He scanned around him to try and find Arthur, to try and get on with this plan so he could finally try and make some amends for everything. 

The boy, though really he was too old to be called that, was sitting over by the river on an old fallen tree, scribbling away in his journal. 

Hosea crossed over to him and lowered himself down onto the log. “Hello, my boy. How are you feelin’?” 

Arthur looked across. 

The bruises around his eye, and across his cheek were just beginning to yellow, but he still had a faint look of…  _ something _ around him. 

It’d near on killed Hosea, when he’d come back bleeding. Not that it was the first time, of course. Arthur seemed to be bleeding over their camp every five minutes, with the way he seemed to throw himself into trouble.

But this was a little different. Something Hosea hadn’t really caught on to until he’d looked at him real close later. 

The bruising was deliberate. 

Dutch had mentioned, when Hosea had pressed him. That the big bastard they’d been robbing had decided at some point that taking the butt of his pistol to Arthur was the best way to keep Dutch docile. 

It hadn’t worked, of course. Dutch’s retribution had been swift. 

But Hosea couldn’t bear to think of his boy being beat on. 

A fight was one thing. A brawl over some slight, drunk and overzealous. Hell, Arthur had caught his share of bullets too, on the job.

There was something different about a man laying into him, when he was already down. 

Hosea couldn’t bear it. 

He knew Arthur couldn’t either. The feeling that he’d failed. That he’d been weak. 

So when Arthur smiled, bright and unconcerned. It felt a little like a victory. “Fine.” 

He shifted the journal in his lap so that Hosea could make out the flock of herons he’d sketched onto the page. 

Hosea smiled. “That’s fine work, son.” 

Arthur smiled too, and went back to his drawing. But it barely took a genius to realise that Arthur’s mind was not on the birds. 

Hosea waited, until he sorted through what he wanted to say. 

“How are you?” Arthur said, finally, carefully, like he was afraid of what answer Hosea would give him. 

And maybe he should be. There were great empty black spots in his memory, but Arthur featured heavily in most of the fuzzy pieces he’d managed to put back together again. Who knew what he could have said to him, any of those nights. 

He knew what he’d been  _ thinking _ , and that was bad enough. 

“I’m fine,” Hosea said. And he was suddenly, very aware of how often those words had been said around this camp, and how rarely they were true. “I mean it, son.”

Arthur looked at him, so earnest that Hosea could see very clearly why he struggled with cons. Why he preferred a more direct approach to robbing folks.

“I mean it,” he said again. “For the first time in a very long time, I’m fine.” 

Arthur smiled faintly. “Dutch is worried about you… or he was.” He sighed, hard, focussed back on the paper. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him now.” 

“Ah, you know how he gets.”

“I guess.” 

“I’m going to have a word with him. In fact, I need you to help me with that.” Arthur looked at him again. “Can you take John out for me? Anywhere you can think. I just need him out from under our feet for the night. Take him out hunting, or something.” 

“Sure,” Arthur said, easily.

“Susan is heading into town, but she’s on a job, so make sure you stay out from under her feet, if you head that way.” Hosea fished some more money out from his coat, and passed it over to Arthur. “And son, stay outta the saloon.” 

“Course.” 

“I mean it. I need you to keep John outta trouble, so don’t go gettin’ into any yourself.” 

“I  _ know _ , Hosea,” Arthur said, sounding so much the same as he had at fourteen that Hosea couldn’t help but smile. 

He patted Arthur’s knee. “I know, son.” 

“I’ll take him fishing,” Arthur said, “camp out by the lake. It’s nice out there, and he can fish from the bank.” 

Hosea smiled again. “No swimming lessons, my heart can’t take it. And if you’re goin’ fishing, then make sure you take a couple of cans with you too. Don’t want you goin’ hungry.” 

“Hey, I can fish!” 

Hosea laughed. “I know you’ve got the patience for fishin’, son, but I can’t say the same for John. Take some supplies with you, anyway. Just in case.” 

Arthur nodded, but from the look on his face, Hosea was certain he wouldn’t take a damn thing with them. Too much pride. 

Or, Hosea thought more kindly, too much care for the rest of them. 

Well, more fool him. If he wanted to take John, sixteen years old and with an attitude like a piss-wet cat, and keep him both bored  _ and _ hungry, Hosea wished him luck.

He patted at Arthur’s knee again, and pushed himself to his feet. 

“Hosea?” Arthur said, stopping him from walking away. He had that awful earnest look on his face again. “I don’t think you should drink so much no more.”

Hosea was suddenly aware of how staggeringly, achingly young he was. A man, maybe, but only just barely. 

Hosea had put far too much on him. 

He couldn’t shake the awful, terrible guilt in his chest. Guilt that would send him right back to the bottle if he wasn’t careful. 

Because it was easier, so much easier. 

He just smiled instead, and nodded. “I think you’re right.” 

The relief that passed across Arthur’s face was damn near heartbreaking. 

“Go on now,” Hosea said, before he couldn’t bear any more. “Go and find that boy.”

Arthur started shoving his journal back into his pack. 

“And Arthur,” Hosea turned back around, “no swimming lessons.” 

“He’s gotta learn.” 

“Not tonight, he doesn’t. Boy’s got the instincts of a sunk boulder, and whatever else you are, son, a good teacher you are not.” 

Arthur’s laughter followed him back into camp. 

***

“Dutch?” Hosea rapped on the tentpost, but he didn’t wait for an answer before he pulled the tent flap back. 

The others had left, the camp was empty. And if he waited any longer, he was likely to give in to the urge to drink some courage before he confronted him. 

Dutch was standing in the centre, a book clasped in his hands, still engrossed in whatever he was reading. He held up a finger, like Hosea was a child to be commanded. 

Hosea felt a flicker of irritation and then consciously let it go. It wouldn’t do any good right now. 

Dutch was… He was stuck in his own head right now. It wasn’t his fault. 

Beneath the collar of his shirt, Hosea could see the edge of the dressing across his shoulder, blood was spotting, patchily through the white cloth. The sling they’d fashioned for him was abandoned over on the cot. 

Hosea bit his tongue. 

Dutch finally looked up, and he broke into a huge grin, which Hosea steadfastly told himself he wasn’t goin’ to fall for. 

“Hosea, brother, come in!” Dutch grabbed him by the wrist, and practically shoved him into one of the chairs. “I’ve found it!” 

He flicked the book open again, from where he’d used a thumb to keep his page. “ _ Society everywhere _ ,” he read, “ _ is in conspiracy- _ ”

Hosea cleared his throat. “Who is this?” 

“Emerson,” Dutch frowned, and opened his mouth, presumably to continue. 

“I thought you were on Thoreau.” 

Dutch made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. 

“Thoreau is derivative.” He pointed at the book in his hands. “Emerson is the true genius. Thoreau just... just regurgitates. Listen.  _ Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the  _ liberty _ and  _ culture _ of the eater. _ ”  __

He punctuated the last words with a few violent jabs of his finger against the page, and then looked up expectantly. 

“Yes,” Hosea said, when it became apparent that Dutch wasn’t going to let it go without response. “Yes. I-” 

Dutch snapped the book closed. 

“You don’t see it.” He dropped the book onto the table with a thud, and toppled the precarious pile of what was presumably Emerson’s entire bibliography. He immediately started searching through the titles. “You don’t understand. Hold on. I can… There’s another.” 

Hosea sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. He laid a hand against Dutch’s arm. “Dutch, I-” 

“I can’t find what I’m lookin’ for. Just give me a minute.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea said again, more firmly, and squeezed his wrist. “I need to speak to you.” 

Dutch opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but then stopped at something in his face. Hosea still knew how to get his attention, at least. “Alright, Hosea.” 

Hosea decided to press his advantage, and the grip he had on Dutch’s arm, and steer them towards the cot. “Come on, let’s sit a minute.” 

Dutch acquiesced. That was good. That was progress. 

Hosea wasn’t sure where to begin. It was always hard when Dutch was in this mood. He was quick to take criticism to heart, and after that point it was almost impossible to get through to him. 

They were sat close, thighs pressed against each other. Hosea gestured to the blood spotting through his shirt. “You need to take better care of that.” 

Dutch glanced down, and then shrugged loosely, like he hadn’t had a bullet embedded in it three days ago. “It’s fine.” 

“You need to keep it still. If it heals bad-” 

“It’s fine,” Dutch snapped again, and stood up. “What is this obsession with my health? I’m fine. Better than fine.” 

Hosea felt any control he’d had over the situation start to slip away. “We’re just worried.”

Dutch was pacing, wearing tracks into the already dying grass beneath his feet. “I already had Susan in here, talking my ear off about goddamn supplies. I’ve got it under control.” 

“Have you?” 

Dutch stopped, with a scowl. “Yes.” 

“It’s just after that… business at Wolf Crossing, I thought we were going to be laying low for a while, but then you went and took Arthur out.” 

That got Dutch to stop his pacing. “Is he alright?” 

“He’s fine. He just took John out fishing. He thinks you’re angry with him.” 

Dutch frowned again, in what looked to be abject confusion. “Why?” 

Hosea couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, you haven’t said two words to him since you got back. People tend to infer things from that.”

“I’ve been busy.” 

“Reading Emerson?”

“Planning,” Dutch said darkly, and then turned abruptly to the chest he’d shoved against the tent wall, and started rooting about inside. 

“In all honesty,” Hosea carried on, like Dutch wasn’t pretending to ignore him, “I think you scared him, a little.” 

Dutch glanced back over his shoulder. “What’s he been saying?” 

“Dutch, that boy hasn’t had a bad word to say ‘bout you in his entire life. I’ve got eyes, haven’t I?” 

Dutch stood up, with a piece of paper now clutched tightly in his palm. “You think anyone who lays a finger on our boys gets to walk away?” 

“That’s not what I meant. You know that. I’m talking about you goin’ stirrin’ up trouble again, when we’ve already got enough on our tail. These… they aren’t good decisions, brother.”

The fight seemed to go out of Dutch all of a sudden, and he crossed back over to Hosea’s side. 

“What happened back at Wolf Crossing was a mistake,” he agreed, slowly, sitting back close again.

Hosea thought he might finally be making progress. 

“And…” Dutch carried on, “and that job with Arthur didn’t work out… I didn’t mean for…” 

Hosea laid his hand against Dutch’s arm again. “I know that. He does too.” 

Dutch brightened. “But I got a new plan.” 

Hosea’s heart sank. “Oh?” 

Dutch nodded, and unfurled the paper in his hand. He spread it out across both their laps. It took Hosea a second to recognise it as a map. 

“We’re here,” Dutch said, and pointed at a dark black circle coloured onto the paper. 

“I see that,” Hosea said carefully, as he ran his eyes along the thin pencil line that traced its way down from their current position. 

“There’s no life for us up here,” Dutch was saying. “We need to keep moving, find somewhere we can be safe.” 

“You want to move us again?” 

“This country, it’s not made for men like us. Not anymore. It’s all...” Dutch was gesturing again. “It’s all cities and, and railroads and…” 

“Dutch, I don’t think we should be moving again so soon.” 

Dutch grabbed at his hand, and shook it. “We’ve got to, don’t you see? Away from all, all this? Away from people.” 

Hosea tried his best to still their hands. “Have a hell of a time robbin’ thin air, Dutch.”

Dutch’s face fell. “Now you’re just being trite.” 

Hosea couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not, I promise.” 

“There’s no peace for us up here, but in Mexico-” 

“Mexico?” 

“Yes! Mexico! See!” He pointed at the map, at the squiggly line, marking their proposed route, which didn’t seem to align with anything but abject desolation. 

“You… you want to drag all these people back down to Mexico?” 

Dutch was grinning. “It’s all opportunity down there, my friend. We’ll be free.” 

Hosea had to forcibly close his mouth. He stared at the map, willing it to make some kind of sense in his own head. “But… we just lit out of Oklahoma with the law on our backs. Now you want to run us all back south again?” 

“We’ll avoid Oklahoma,” Dutch said, like that was obvious. Like  _ that _ was the problem. 

Hosea just stared at the map. “Dutch, it must be fifteen hundred miles. You want us to take… What’ll we eat?”

Dutch nudged his shoulder, still grinning. “We done it before.” 

Hosea looked at him. “Back in the day, we woulda just hopped a train. But we’ve got people now, we’ve…” He gestured around them. “We’ve got all of this.” 

“We don’t need  _ things _ , Hosea. Each other. That’s all we need. Listen,” Dutch dropped down onto his knees in front of him, hands still clasped around Hosea’s, “I know you haven’t… I know you haven’t been well, but this,” he pointed at the map, “this’ll be a new start, for us.” 

God, Hosea hated it when Dutch got that look on his face. It was so damn hard to say no to him. 

“What do you think?” Dutch said, when Hosea didn’t answer. 

_ I think you need to sleep, Dutch. _

He didn’t say it. He could predict how well that would go over. 

“I haven’t been well,” Hosea agreed, though it was such an understatement that it edged on being a lie. “I’m still not well, and I’m tired, Dutch. I’m tired, and our boys are tired. It’s been a bad run… after… after…” 

Dutch squeezed his hand. 

“I know you think you know best,” Hosea carried on, “and maybe, maybe Mexico is the best move, but I need you to give us some time here. Time to breathe. I,” Hosea let himself laugh, “I can’t keep up with you.” 

Dutch was nodding, looking like he was doing it instinctively. Hosea knew this wasn’t the last time he was goin’ to hear about Mexico in the next few days, but hopefully he’d be able to keep steering him. 

It would be hell when Dutch came back to himself, it always was, but it would be a damn sight worse if it happened while they were on some wild flight down to Mexico at the time. 

Hosea extracted his hand from Dutch’s so he could pat at his wrist. “Just, just give us a couple of weeks. To get back on our feet, and then we’ll see about where to go next. I just… I need a few days, alright? To get well.” 

Dutch nodded again, slowly. “We’re safe here for the moment?” 

Hosea wasn’t sure if he was imagining the question in that, but he decided to latch onto it. “Yeah, we’re alright. They ain’t gonna string us up yet.” 

“They’ll  _ never _ string us up.” 

Hosea smiled, because when he talked like this, it was almost impossible not to believe him. 

“No,” he said. “They won’t. Now, can I get a look at that shoulder? Make sure you ain’t done any damage with all that gesticulating?” 

Dutch let himself be pulled back up onto the cot, didn’t put up any fight when Hosea started to unbutton his shirt. 

“Now,” Hosea said, as he started to unravel the dressing, “why don’t you tell me what Emerson’s got to say?” 

If Dutch was gonna stay up all night, working himself up into a fit, then the least Hosea could do was sit up with him. 

Frankly, he didn’t much want to be on his own either. Not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> No one will ever convince me that Dutch doesn't have bipolar. I was going to set this in game time, but then I decided I wanted a (marginally) happier ending. Plus I like the idea that Hosea is pretty calm throughout RDR2 because he's been here before, and is pretty sure he can manage it... which, is unfortunate...
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this! Let me know what you think!


End file.
